24
Tia opened the padlock and pushed the door open. The girl raised up sleepily, framed by the shaft of light coming from the main compartment of the RV.
“Who are you?” Tia asked.
The girl hesitated, looking away before finally responding. “Zarita.”
Tia didn’t smile and didn’t offer praise. “Damn right, you are. I don’t want to know what your name was before and I don’t want to hear you using it. If anyone asks your name, it’s Zarita. Whoever you were before, you ain’t never going to be her again.”
Tia groped along the wall and flipped the light switch. Dim sconces came to life and Gretchen shielded her eyes. When Tia sat down on the edge of the bed the girl withdrew under the blanket, shrinking away from her. “Give me your arm.”
Gretchen’s eyes widened in panic. Tia could tell she wanted to ask why, but she didn’t. She was learning that noncompliance only brought pain.
Tia held out her hand, waiting for the girl to comply. “Your arm.”
Gretchen tentatively extended her arm, flinching when Tia latched onto it with a strong grip. “I’m going to give you a shot.”
“Noooooo!” Gretchen screeched. “I hate shots! Please don’t.”
Tia pulled a bandana from her pocket and started tying off Gretchen’s arm. The child was not comfortable with this and twisted, struggling within herself to not fight back, knowing the pain that would invite. Tia used an alcohol wipe to clean Gretchen’s arm. When she removed the capped syringe from her shirt pocket, Gretchen could no longer restrain herself. She became hysterical, kicking and screaming like a cat going into a tub of water.
“Stop it!” Tia demanded. She drew back her hand. “I will beat your ass, kid.”
Gretchen quit fighting but could not stop whining. She flopped her head back and forth as if she were caught in a nightmare from which she couldn’t awake.
“If you move this is going to hurt a lot worse,” Tia warned. “Then I’ll make you pay for not listening.”
Tia used her teeth to tug the cap from the syringe and inserted the needle. Gretchen’s eyes widened and her mouth opened in a silent scream. Tia slowly depressed the plunger. When she was done, she pressed the bandana over the injection site. “Hold this in place.”
Gretchen didn’t respond, eyes wide in horror, tears silently pouring down her face.
“Hold this in place!” Tia barked.
Gretchen’s hand shot to the bandana and held it to her arm. Tia got up, snapped off the light, and left the room. She replaced the padlock on the door and threw the syringe in the trash.
She went forward to the passenger seat and settled in. “How much longer?”
“Maybe an hour.”
“Her ass will be out cold by then.”
“What did you give her?”
“Demerol.”
“You know what you’re doing, right?” Barger asked. “I mean, she’s not going to overdose and die is she?”
“That’s why I used Demerol,” Tia replied. “There are written guidelines based on weight. I knew exactly how much to give her. Use that shit off the street and you don’t know how many times it’s been stepped on. Or it could be Fentanyl, and then you’re fucked.”
Barger nodded.
“What’s the matter, old man, you getting a conscience?”
“No. Just don’t want her to die after all the trouble we went through. I don’t want to blow it at the end.”
“Nobody’s blowing anything. She’ll be fine. At least until she gets where she’s going. Then it ain’t our problem anymore.”
25
Ty pushed through the day with the help of satellite radio and metal playlists on his phone. He tried not to think about Deena and Aiden. His sister was worried he’d take his life in some shabby motel room and he’d been closer to that than he wanted to admit. He also tried to push thoughts of the possible arrest warrant from his head. He expected at any moment the local sheriff’s department would call and ask where he was. The way his luck had been going lately, it would probably be one of those condescending assholes he’d bumped heads with the day the Gretchen went missing.
Heading for Tucson, Ty took the opportunity to ditch I-40 and head southwest on the two-lane Route 54. He traveled through flat, scrubby desert past the Mescalero Reservation, turning onto route 70 just before Holloman Air Force Base. At Las Cruces, New Mexico, he hit the interstate again, heading west on I-10 into Arizona.
The landscape was both alien and fascinating. Ty was enthralled by the harsh beauty of it. The terrain was so moving to him that he wondered how he could have been deprived of this for his whole life. It was like he’d been sheltered from some important piece of knowledge, like Luke not knowing that Darth Vader was his father. Why had no one ever shown him this?
He was compelled to stop at a scenic overlook and take in the beauty. He’d been unable to stop himself yet soon experienced a wave of guilt. There was a girl in the hands of strangers and he was gawking at rocks like he didn’t have a care in the world. He got back in his truck and hit the road again.
With hours to kill before he hit Tucson, he decided to take a chance and call Cliff Mathis. He was so excited about getting a hit on the RV tag number he’d forgotten Door Kickers International was also based out of Tucson, according to their website. God, he hoped he didn’t sound like an idiot. There had been a day when he had the confidence to call anyone and do anything. He didn’t feel the same anymore. Most days he felt like he’d been demoted to the rank of Loser. Before he could talk himself out of it, he punched in the number and made the call.
“DKI, how may I help you?” answered a pleasant female voice.
Ty liked the way they used the abbreviation. It gave the name a more professional demeanor and sounded a little less like a professional wrestling alliance. “I wanted to speak to Cliff Mathis please.”
“Can I ask who’s calling?”
“My name is Tyler Stone. Tell him I’m calling from the Wasteland. He’ll probably know what that means.”
“One moment please.” The receptionist put him on hold and a bland electronic tune filled his ear.
Shortly, a male voice was on the line. “Cliff Mathis.”
“Hello, Mr. Mathis. You don’t know me but my name is Tyler Stone. A friend named Jessica gave me your number. We’re active in a social media group called Wasteland For Warriors. She said you used to be part of the group.”
“Hey, Tyler, call me Cliff. I actually got an introductory message from Jessica yesterday saying you might call. She gave me a little background on how you two know each other. Always good to meet another Wastelander, fighting the good fight.”
Ty gave a chuckle at that. “Not sure that describes my work as much as what you’re doing, Cliff. I’m a year post-discharge and still haven’t figured out what I want do when I grow up.”
“It takes a while to find the new mission sometimes. It took me a while too. Now I feel like this is what I was put here on Earth to do. My time in the military, my time as a cop, all of it was meant to prepare me for what I do now. Jessica said she told you a little about my company?”
“She did.”
“If I can cut to the chase, she said you’re involved in something I might be able to help with?”
“Possibly. I guess I’m not totally sure at this point.”
“I’m not a cop, Tyler. Anything you tell me will be held in confidence as long as someone is not at risk of harm.”
“Someone is definitely at risk of harm, Cliff, and the cops are already involved. Law enforcement doesn’t agree with my theory, though. They think I’m a crackpot who needs to go on with my life and leave the investigating to the real cops.”
“Tyler, are you somewhere you can talk? I might be able to help if I had a little more information to go on.”
“I’m driving. No one here but me.”
“Then I want you to run me through what you feel comfortable sharing. If I have any insights that might he
lp, I’ll speak up.”
Ty had an instinct that he could trust this man. His military background, his time in the Wasteland, and his current mission all made him come across like a man of integrity. He took a deep breath and launched into his story. Driving the desert between Las Cruces and Tucson, Ty recounted everything he could remember up to the point that Jessica provided him with the tag number. He even included his firing but left out the possibility that there was a warrant out for his arrest in Virginia.
“So the police had no interest in this tag number?” Cliff asked.
“No,” Ty confirmed. “They have that same picture but they disagree with my rationale of why the girl was smiling. They think she was smiling at her dad. I know in my gut I’m right. Besides, the mom confirmed that the girl was obsessed with puppies and would probably not have smiled that same way at her dad.”
“I’ll be honest, Ty. Random abductions are rare. These crimes of opportunity are usually the work of a serial killer or child killer who commits the crime locally then disposes of the body.”
The thought sickened Ty. “If you could see these two pictures in relation to each other, you might see the same thing I’m seeing.”
“I’m not saying you’re wrong, Tyler, just offering my experience. My wheelhouse is human trafficking and exploitation. There are several channels by which people, primarily young women, are brought in. A lot of them are illegals. Some are forced to work off a debt to the people who smuggled them across the border. There are runaways taken in by pimps and put to work. There are also thousands of traffickers who work social media to manipulate vulnerable young folks into leaving home. The kids think they’re gaining freedom but usually end up as drug-addicted sex workers.”
“So what you’re telling me is the likelihood of this girl being taken to Arizona is pretty slim. If she was indeed snatched as part of some crime of opportunity, then she’s probably lying dead back in Virginia, rather than being brought alive into Arizona.”
“That’s certainly what the typical scenarios would suggest, although there are always exceptions. Could be a trafficker who saw an opportunity and took it.”
“I guess I’d prefer that scenario over the idea that we’re going to find her dead in the woods somewhere.”
“I understand that sentiment, Ty, but I’ve met hundreds of young women who would argue death is a better end than being trafficked.”
“I don’t know what to do here, Cliff.” Ty was starting to doubt himself again. “I’m not sure what’s going on but I feel like I’ve come too far to let this go. Even if these people didn’t take her, they may have seen something.”
“Well, what exactly do you intend to do with this address now that you have it? Keep in mind that I’m not a cop. I’ll give you my advice, though, if I think you’re about to make a mistake.”
“I don’t have a plan other than to put the address under surveillance and look for the RV. If I see it, I’ll go from there. If nothing else, this woman needs to be asked if she saw Gretchen or saw what happened to her after she exited the store.”
“I think you’re correct that this is all you can do at this point. If law enforcement isn’t buying your theory, you’ll just have to collect more evidence and prove them wrong.”
“Or bring her back home,” Ty countered.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself and don’t do anything rash. If they really are traffickers, these people can be dangerous. This isn’t a business for the soft-hearted. They’ll kill both you and the girl without a moment’s hesitation.”
“Roger that.”
“I’m serious, Ty. Violence is an everyday thing for these people.”
“For most of my career, it was for me also.”
Cliff had no response for that. “Are you willing to send me the info you have? The two pictures you’ve mentioned and the address? I’ll help out if I can and keep it between us.”
Cliff rattled off his personal cell number and Ty entered it into his phone.
“Got it. I’ll send them as soon as we get off here. I’d appreciate any help.”
“My job is pretty dynamic, Ty. I don’t always know where I’m going to be from day to day. I’d love to catch up with you when you’re in Tucson but I can’t promise it, though. Depends on my schedule.”
“No problem, Cliff. I appreciate your time. If there’s anything I can ever do for you, just let me know.”
“I’ll do that, brother, and I’ll add one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t invest yourself so heavily that you can’t bounce back. You don’t have much information to go on. You don’t know how this is going to end. Don’t put yourself in an emotional place where you can’t handle the outcome.”
“Got it,” Ty said, despite wondering if it was too late for that.
He ended the call and sent Cliff the address associated with the RV tag, then scrolled through his phone and found the two digital pictures which he also forwarded. One was the shot of Gretchen Wells grinning broadly as she exited the Petro Panda, the other of the woman with the gray puppy leaning against the RV, the tag number prominently visible at her side.
He checked his GPS. Two hours until he hit Tucson.
26
When he reached Tucson, Ty filled his fuel tank and grabbed some food at a Whataburger. It was afternoon and there was a lot of traffic, certainly more than his sleepy small town had on the worst of days. Besides the stress of the traffic, he was absorbed in the differences between this southwestern town and pretty much everywhere else he’d ever been in his life.
He let his GPS guide him to the address Jessica provided. The neighborhood was old with low adobe houses. Ty couldn’t quite figure out the nature of the residents, other than it appeared to be a neighborhood in transition. Where were these people on the income scale? There were houses in disrepair with trashy yards and broken down vehicles. Others were brightly colored with ornate ironwork and period-correct architectural details. Some had expensive cars parked outside and professional landscaping.
The address led him to a home somewhere in between the two extremes. It was a nice house on a decent-sized lot for the area. The house was in good repair, with a tall iron fence to the front and adobe walls surrounding the remainder of the property. While it was not as well-appointed as some of its neighbors, neither was it a crumbling wreck like others. The yard was landscaped with cacti, small stones, and areas of gravel. The roof was terra cotta tile.
It took him several passes to find a decent spot from which to observe the house. There was no place to hide along the street. There were few trees and everywhere he stopped looked like he was parked on someone’s property. He finally found a place alongside a pink cinderblock wall that didn’t feel too exposed.
There were no cars in the driveway, which made him wonder if he could have beaten the RV home. He’d certainly been driving long hours and pushing himself. Anyone sticking to a more conventional driving schedule wouldn’t have covered as many miles. It occurred to him that they could even be days behind him. Perhaps they weren’t even headed home at all. He’d never considered that possibility. If that was the case, he was screwed.
Ty studied the satellite map of the neighborhood on his phone. There was a dirt alley that ran along the back of the houses facing this side of the street. He circled the block in his truck, thinking he might be able to cut through the alley and check out the back of the house. No such luck. The alley was overgrown, with tree branches blocking anything but foot traffic. Ty could imagine the residents doing that intentionally to keep cars out.
Since driving through it wasn’t a possibility, he parked in the same spot, dug around, and found a legal pad in his laptop case. He got out of the truck and started walking. No one could walk around a neighborhood like this and not be noticed, but he’d learned that a notepad or clipboard gave you an official air. He stopped occasionally to examine the surface of the asphalt street and to check the condition of the sidewalk
s. He scribbled notes. If anyone asked, he was a contractor preparing a bid for repaving some local streets.
He took a left turn down the side street, and halfway down, turned left again into the alley. The alley looked into the backyards of most of the homes on the block, depending on whether they had fencing or a solid wall. When he got to the home he was interested in, his view onto the property was blocked by a solid wall. There was a wooden door in the wall with a window opening at eye level. The window opening was trimmed with simple ironwork.
Ty glanced around, saw that no one could see him, and peered through the opening. In the yard were stacks of lumber and cinder blocks. A back porch stood incomplete. There was none of the landscaping that was visible in the front yard. Stakes marked an area that might be a planned pool or perhaps a garage. There were no cars and no signs of life.
Turning to walk away, he nearly ran into a short Hispanic woman with braided gray hair. She was only feet away and clearly trying to figure out what he was doing.
“I’m sorry,” he said, pointing to his notepad. “I’m a contractor. Getting some measurements.”
She appeared skeptical but said nothing as he passed by and continued down the alley. He stopped once more, pretending to make a note, then hurried to his truck.
27
Bill Barger was exhausted by the time he reached Tucson. Each road trip was more taxing than the last. Every time he arrived home he swore he was done and he wasn’t going back out on the road again. He wasn’t making long trips with that spooky-ass woman and her crazy voodoo gods, or whatever the hell they were. Then he’d get that envelope of cash and it would ease his pain just enough to forget how bad it had been.
It was all about the money for Bill. He’d done well in the late 90s. Loans had been easy to get and easy to pay off. As a contractor with a proven track record for flipping houses, he had an open line of credit. He could buy any house he wanted with the assurance that the bank would cover the loan. The vice-president of the bank had promised it himself. Filling out the paperwork was simply a technicality.
Hard Trauma Page 14